His thoughts had been scattered by the beating and he couldn’t collect them into logical groupings. He didn’t know what to do. Call Karsh. That was imperative. But the phone seemed miles away, and he knew Karsh would be in bed or drunk by now. Probably both.
Terrell wasn’t aware of dozing off, but suddenly a chill went through him and he sat up shaking his head and staring about the dimly-lit room. The illuminated hands of his wrist watch stood at two-thirty. He had been asleep an hour or more. What had waked him?
Then it came again, a soft tap on the door. Terrell got stiffly to his feet, pressing one hand against the pain in his side. There were no weapons in the house, and he could barely raise his arm; he was in no shape for a return bout with Ike Cellars’ apes. But why would they come here? If they planned to eliminate him they wouldn’t do it in installments.
He crossed the room, and stood beside the door with his back to the wall. “Who’s that?” he said.
“It’s me — Connie.”
“What do you want?”
“I want to see you. Her voice was low and pleading.”
Terrell said, “This dialogue seems reminiscent. Thanks but no thanks.”
“Please listen to me.”
Terrell hesitated. Then he said, “Are you alone?”
“Yes, I swear it.”
He put the burglar chain on, and opened the door a few inches. She was alone, looking young and pale and frightened in the softly-lit corridor.
“What do you want?”
“Do you need anything? Can I do anything for you?”
“I’m just fine,” Terrell said. “What makes you think I’d need more help?”
“I was worried — can’t I come in for just a minute, please? I want to explain.”
“I’ll bet your story’s cute,” Terrell said. But he was interested. He unhooked the burglar chain. “Come on in.” When she slipped past him he closed the door and bolted it and then limped back to the sofa.
“You’re hurt,” she said. She came up behind him and touched his arm. “Can I get you anything?”
“You’ve helped enough. Any more help from you and I’ll need a complete set of new parts.”
“I’m terribly sorry. They made me call you.”
“I’m sorry too,” he said, turning and looking at her.
When she saw his face she drew a sharp breath. “They hurt you. You — you’d better sit down. You look sick.”
“Stop fussing,” he said foolishly.
“Well, you stop acting like an idiot.” She turned him toward the sofa. He tried to pull away from her but the strength was flowing out of him in giddy waves. “Cut it out,” he said. He was on his back then and she was adjusting a pillow under his head.
“They made me do it,” she said. “They made me do it. Can’t you believe that?”
“Sure, that’s how concentration camps got built. People were made to do it”
“They said they just wanted to talk to you. Frankie said you wouldn’t see him. So he told me to call you and arrange a date. I... I shouldn’t have done it. I wouldn’t have if I’d known they were going to hurt you.”
“Hurt me? Where did you get that idea? I won a ribbon for boxing in third grade.” He felt the weight of his eyelids and knew he was entangled in a waking dream; the activity of the last few days was churning before his eyes. The faces of Sarnac and Caldwell and Coglan Hashed in his mind, etched against splintering black and white backgrounds. Other faces followed with bewildering speed; Superintendent Duggan, Ike Cellars, Bridewell, Karsh.
“Would you like coffee?” she asked him.
“I don’t need anything. All right, coffee then.” He knew she wouldn’t be able to find things, so he decided to get up and help. But instead he went to sleep. He didn’t wake until she shook his shoulders gently and said, “Here’s your coffee, Sam.”
He had been asleep half an hour, and the rest had revived him considerably. The apartment smelled pleasantly of coffee and cigarette smoke, and Connie was sitting in a chair beside the sofa. A tray was on the floor beside him.
“Do you feel any better?” she asked him.
“I’m all right, I guess.” He sipped the coffee and looked around for a cigarette.
“Here,” she said, offering him a pack.
He took one, accepted a light from hers, and nodded his thanks. She had pushed the sleeves of her dress up and knotted a large bathtowel around her waist. Under this improvised apron she wore a gray wool dress that buttoned up the front from the hem to the belt line. The buttons were brown and shiny and glinted when she crossed her legs.
“You should get to bed,” she said. “I’ve put out your pajamas and turned back the covers.”
“That’s fine.”
“Are you hungry? I could make you an omelette.”
“You sound like the Welcome Wagon people,” he said. “I’d like a drink, that’s all.”
“I’ll fix it. Water? Ice?”
“Just a little water.”
While she was in the kitchen Terrell stood and limped into his bedroom. The bed was turned down neatly and his pajamas and robe were folded over the back of a chair. He slipped out of his suitcoat and let it drop to the floor, but the shirt was another matter; he could barely raise his hands to his collar, and the buttons felt like pinheads under his clumsy fingers.
She came in a little later with his drink. He was standing with his hands at his sides. “Give me a lift with this shirt, please,” he said.
“Yes, of course.” She seemed eager to help out, he thought with a touch of irritation. Like a teen-ager collecting scrap for a charity drive — damp with the goodness of it all.
She put the drink down and took off his tie and unbuttoned his shirt. She said something in a little whisper when she saw the bruises along his ribs. Her lips began to tremble. “They might have killed you,” she said.
“A small price for a good story,” he said. “That was our class motto. Martyrs in the cause of fearless reporting — a fine, clean way to go, don’t you think?”
“Lie down and stop it. Should I call a doctor or something?”
“No, I don’t think so. Nothing’s broken. It will wear away in a day or so.”
“Why are you putting yourself on a spot? Isn’t there someone who could help you?”
“Sure,” he said, “you for one. But you said no.”
“It wouldn’t do any good. You can’t change things.”
“Maybe, maybe not. But I can change into my pajamas, if you’ll excuse me.”
“Yes, certainly.”
Terrell got under the covers a few minutes later and let his body sink gratefully into the soft warmth of the bed. A knock sounded gently on the door, and he said, “Come in.”
She had her coat over her arm. “I’m going now,” she said. “Is there anything else I could get for you?”
“I don’t think so.”
She came to the side of the bed and looked down at him with a grave little frown. “I made fresh coffee. All you have to do is turn up the burner when you want it.”
“Okay, thanks.” They looked at each other for a few seconds in silence. She was very pale and her short yellow hair shadowed her eyes. The shiny brown buttons on her skirt glinted as she shifted her weight.
“I hope you feel better tomorrow.”